by Damien Black
Guzzling down the last of the wine he tossed the skin angrily to one side. ‘I can only pray that Reus grants me the power to knock some sense into that hot head of yours,’ he slurred. ‘You’ll never make a knight, Vaskrian, but one day you might just make a half-decent squire. Now serve up my blasted supper – I’ve more than earned it.’
They ate in cheerless silence before turning in. Derrick’s body caught Vaskrian’s eye just as he was climbing into their tent. His limbs were bent in the unnatural pose of death.
He felt no remorse. The truth was, he’d sicked that up with the bile. His hands were washed clean in the waters of the Warryn, the bloodstains barely visible against the mud-caked red of his tunic sleeves. Derrick was just another corpse he’d made.
Still, he’d learned his lesson, whatever Branas might think. He wouldn’t kill like that again.
Because when he became a knight, he would never have to listen to anyone taunt him all day long. He could demand satisfaction at the first insult, just like Branas and Anrod had. Kill a man in a duel of honour and you were beyond reproach.
He realised then that it wasn’t how many you killed, or even who you killed that mattered – it was how you killed them.
Sir Branas was definitely wrong about one thing. Vaskrian understood perfectly well what it meant to be a knight.
CHAPTER IV
A Reunion With Old Friends
Adelko felt his heart quicken as he gazed across the valley at Ulfang Monastery. Three days’ ride from Rykken had brought them back, and travel-thirsty as he was he had to admit he’d missed his adoptive home.
Its outer stone wall, sturdy and buttressed like a castle’s, traced a circle around the crown of the hill it rested on. Adelko could make out the familiar storehouses, granaries and stables dotting the outer enclosure of the circular courtyard, and the stone buildings clustered about its centre that housed the refectory, kitchen, lectern halls, prayer room, sleeping quarters and common library. These were arranged in a smaller circle that enclosed the pillared cloisters where the adepts and journeymen spent the day in contemplation and study, when not teaching the novices. The cloisters encircled the monastery’s inner sanctum, forbidden to all but the Abbot and senior members of the Order.
The only part of the monastery to have more than one floor, the sanctum was a small fortress in its own right, housing the Abbot’s private rooms and study. Its round turret loomed above the grit-strewn courtyard, a flag perched atop it flapping in the brisk wind. This was emblazoned with the Order’s motif, a silver lectern inside a circle of the same colour on a grey background. Beneath it, written in Decorlangue, were the words Knowledge of Evil Brings the Strength to do Good.
That had been the Order’s motto since it was founded by St Argo more than five hundred years ago, when the learned savant had called on the people of the fledgling Free Kingdoms to favour reason and faith over sword and spear in the age-old struggle against wickedness and injustice. The Redeemer had said just the same thing of course, but by St Argo’s time the world was languishing in the Second Age of Darkness and the lesson had been forgotten somewhat. But then the Almighty could always be counted on to send His servants to help the faithful, if they were wise enough to listen.
Adelko glanced at his master. His face was stern and unyielding and betrayed no emotion at their return. He supposed Horskram had made this journey too many times to be really moved by the spectacle. The two monks pressed on down into the valley before ascending the gentle slopes to draw level with the crop fields surrounding the monastery. These were carved from the hills in a series of platforms: a veritable giant’s stairway of wheat, barley, corn and other good things.
Adelko felt his stomach rumble as he thought of Ulfang’s capacious storehouses. One thing the Order did not lack was provender, and he had sorely missed hearty mealtimes in the refectory during his travels.
As they had done last autumn, the journeymen of the Order crowded around Horskram as they approached the monastery, bidding him well met. Brother Silas, the adept in charge of farming for the season, strode over and joined his leathery voice to the greetings.
‘Brother Horskram, returned so soon!’ he exclaimed. ‘We had not expected to see you back here for at least another half year! Pray what brings you back?’
Horskram’s face remained stoical as he replied: ‘We have had unforeseen encounters upon the road, and I must speak with the Abbot. The forces of darkness are abroad in the land, and I have words for his ears only.’
Silas’ drawn face lengthened even further, and he and several other monks nearby made the sign of the Wheel.
‘That is ill news, Brother, and I am sorry to hear it. You will find Sacristen in his receiving chamber, for he is giving audience to a party of merchants from Port Cravern. They will be breaking their journey with us this night.’
An expression of distaste crossed Horskram’s face. Adelko had heard him voice his disdain for the merchant class on more than one occasion, and knew his mistrust of the city-born commoners who placed a tidy profit above all else was shared by many in the Order. But their hefty contributions to Temple coffers, given to purchase prayers for their crooked souls, were valued. The Abbot, though a pious monk, knew only too well that the Order could not afford to pass up on its share of donations. Sacristen was clever like that.
Giving Silas a curt nod Horskram nudged his steed up the trail towards the monastery gates, Adelko following. In times of war the great oak portals would be bolted shut, but today was a clear spring day in time of peace, and they were spread invitingly. Riding beneath the gateway’s buttressed arch the two monks ambled over to the stables.
Yudi, a ruddy-faced novice about Adelko’s age, rushed over to take care of their horses.
‘Adelko! You’re back!’ he said excitedly. ‘We didn’t expect to see you so soon – though it seems an age since you left! And humble greetings to you too, Master Horskram,’ he added, suddenly remembering his manners and giving the distinguished adept a flustered half bow.
Horskram allowed a slight smile to break his features as he replied: ‘Never mind all that, young novice! See to our horses – there’ll be plenty of time for gossip later!’
Yudi gave another awkward bow as Horskram and Adelko dismounted, and hurriedly did as he was told.
Looking across the courtyard Adelko saw a dozen other novices returning quarterstaves to the barracks. He frowned at the memory. They’d just had combat practice – by far his least favourite discipline. But the Order applied a stern and thorough regimen, and Argolians were expected to be physical exemplars too; when not busy helping to farm the monastery lands novices were trained to ride and fight.
Both skills were taught in anticipation of the day when they would serve as friars and roam the wilderness in service of the Almighty. Just as knights sometimes forsook their liege lords to travel hither and yon as errants, fighting enemies of the King’s Law wherever they could, Argolians would leave their monasteries to confront the servants of the Fallen One wherever they could find them.
Their weapons were the Words of the Redeemer, but all too often man was his own worst enemy – so the Argolians practised martial arts as well. Even with Freidheim on the throne ruling benevolently many of the roads and ways lying outside the King’s Dominions were not safe, and robbers and highwaymen roamed at will through lands unguarded by the Knights of the White Valravyn.
Udo was still barking orders at the hapless novices in his hoarse, cracking voice – though the lesson was plainly over. The hardy old monk had served as a knight for many years under a Wolding baron before his conscience moved him to take holy orders.
His conscience hadn’t quenched his fighting spirit, though, and it was whispered in the cloisters that he still loved the lance more than the lectern. The Abbot had apparently worked this out some time ago and decided that Udo’s yearnings would be best served by putting him in charge of martial training, simultaneously harnessing his talents for the good of the Order. Sacristen was cle
ver like that.
Adelko felt a shiver run down his spine as he watched Udo. He might have been an excellent scholar, but he was a near hopeless fighter.
A harsh and unforgiving taskmaster, Udo knew it too. In his first year at Ulfang he had singled him out mercilessly, often sweeping his legs out from under him to ‘improve his stance’ or deliberately pairing him with one of the bigger, stronger novices to ‘encourage him to up his game’. Then there were the humiliating admonishments, which typically went something like: ‘Adelko! Follow through on your swing, for Reus’ sake! My horse could wield a staff better than that!’
Adelko wasn’t sure which he had hated most – the bruising blows or the barbed jibes.
At least some good had come of it, Adelko thought ruefully. He’d improved somewhat over the years, and by the time he had left with Horskram his quarterstaff technique was nearly passable. Passable enough to last maybe a couple of minutes in a fight with a brigand.
Three of the novices had spotted him. Adelko recognised his best friends with a smile as they approached excitedly.
Fat Yalba was first to rush up and greet him. About a year older than Adelko, he moved with a speed that belied his girth, and anyone unfortunate enough to be paired with him in quarterstaff practice was likely to wind up flat on his back nursing bruises.
Adelko knew it only too well, and unfortunately for him so did Udo. Yalba was as sharp-tongued as he was strong, and a natural leader, but his prowess at the lectern left something to be desired, and often he would trade a fighting tip or two for a page of Adelko’s flawless Decorlangue translations.
‘Adelko! I can’t believe it’s you!’ he exclaimed loudly. ‘It feels like you’ve been gone forever! My, but you’ve grown!’
‘You too, Yalba!’ Adelko faltered nervously. Though they were best friends, Yalba could get sensitive about his weight. He added quickly: ‘It’s good to see you! It’s good to see you all!’
‘Tell us, where have you been?’ asked Hargus. ‘You must have seen so many places – we want to know everything!’
Hargus’s big round face bobbed comically up and down as he looked up at Adelko and beamed. He was very short – even for his fourteen summers – but his cheerfulness made him popular, along with his impressions of the adepts, with his turn on old Udo being widely considered his best.
‘Oh don’t worry – you will!’ said Adelko dramatically. He’d been fantasising for weeks about impressing his friends with stories of travelling, exorcisms and witch-hunting, and he wasn’t about to pass up on his opportunity. ‘You won’t believe some of the things I’ve seen this last fortnight!’
‘Adelko!’ Horskram snapped. ‘Nothing beckons the anti-angels like the loose wagging of idle tongues – remember your scripture and don’t be so boastful!’
‘Yes, Master Horskram,’ Adelko said, quickly curbing his ebullience. The others did likewise. The adept’s reputation at Ulfang meant that no novice dared cross him.
‘As I have said already,’ Horskram continued sternly, ‘there will be plenty of time for gossip, if you really must indulge in such tittle-tattle. For now it behoves us to make our report to the Abbot, so look lively Adelko – and I trust that your account of your adventures, when you doubtless give it, will be a fittingly sober affair.’
‘Of course, Master Horskram,’ replied Adelko in a hushed voice.
‘Very good, now come along – Sacristen will doubtless have heard of our arrival and be waiting for us.’
Horskram turned on his heel. Adelko was just about to follow when the third novice, Arik, caught his sleeve.
Fixing Adelko with a conspiratorial look he said in a low voice: ‘Adelko, good to see you. If you still care to regale us with your stories after evening lessons, come to my pallet – this afternoon I managed to purloin some... refreshments from the scullery.’
Arik, who shared the same name as Adelko’s brother, grinned and winked before turning to leave with the other two.
Adelko liked Arik a lot. He was very clever – along with Adelko, he was probably the brightest novice in their cohort, and they often studied together and compared notes. It was a rare friendship. A lanky and somewhat ungainly youth, Arik wasn’t the most popular novice in the monastery – with his intelligence came an arrogance that didn’t endear him to many. Adelko often suspected that if it wasn’t for Yalba vouching for him Arik might not have fared half so well at Ulfang.
Four men were just leaving the Abbot’s chamber as they approached. Horskram pointedly ignored them, but even without this clue Adelko could tell from their corpulent frames, sumptuous clothing and forked beards that they were the merchants. Taking in their smug, self-satisfied demeanour, he could well understand why his master despised their kind. But then he supposed somebody had to provide all the good things that the rich lowland nobles wanted.
If the merchants had come from Port Cravern then most likely they would be accompanied by mercenaries and pack horses laden with goods, purchased from the trading ships at harbour. These would have been brought across the Wyvern Sea from the mighty Empire to the east – a vast and powerful realm separated from the Free Kingdoms by the Great White Mountains that minded its own affairs but still deigned to trade with its lesser neighbours.
Following his master into the chamber Adelko found Sacristen much as he had left him. As portly as the merchants they had just passed, his kind jowly face was offset by keen grey eyes that betrayed a sharp intelligence. He was about the same age as Horskram, but the years had been much less kind to him – his love of food and drink was well known.
Getting to his feet and moving around his thick oak table with some effort, Sacristen embraced Horskram, exclaiming: ‘Brother, well met! I trust St Ionus guarded you well on your travels! Pray what brings you back so soon? We had not expected to see you for another season at least.’
‘The Redeemer be praised for returning us safely and in good health,’ replied Horskram, keeping to monastic formality. ‘And may the Prophet’s peace be on Ulfang, and all who shelter within its walls! We are indeed returned right soon, for though Reus granted that our labours were successful, we encountered trouble that necessitated our coming back without delay.’
Sacristen’s face darkened. ‘Ah, old friend, that is bitter news indeed. In that case I can only presume you have an account to give. What is it? A haunting, or some other manifestation?’
‘It pertains to an exorcism we conducted less than a week ago at Rykken. We managed to cast out the spirit, but there are... other ramifications.’
Sacristen looked at Horskram and Adelko nervously. He was naturally of a jittery temperament, but the novice thought that today he looked especially agitated, even allowing for the gravity of Horskram’s statement. He wondered what the merchants had been saying.
Moving back behind his table the Abbot picked up a small iron bell and rang it.
‘Sit you down both, and wait while I call for some refreshments – then you can tell me everything. You yourselves must be hungry after your long journey, and you know how I hate to receive bad news on an empty stomach.’
The three monks waited for a novice to bring some bread, cheese and cured fish and a flagon of watered wine. Sacristen helped himself liberally to these. Adelko followed suit gladly but Horskram ate and drank sparingly as was his wont.
While they ate the avuncular Abbot commented breezily on how Adelko had grown, quizzing him perfunctorily on his experiences. Too breezy, too perfunctory. Something was bothering him, Adelko’s keen sixth sense told him that much.
Horskram reported their less gruelling encounters with the forces of darkness, the same tales Adelko was looking forward to regaling his friends with later. But all the while he sensed a lingering tension in the room. It was almost enough to spoil his appetite.
Presently Horskram began to tell Sacristen of their struggle with the evil spirit at Rykken. The Abbot’s face grew even graver, and when Horskram finished by telling him that Gizel had been possessed
by Belaach, he ran his pudgy fingers across his bald pate and let out a troubled sigh.
‘Belaach is too powerful an entity to get across to our world without some kind of potent witchcraft being involved,’ Horskram reminded him. ‘Whether it’s a case of his being directly summoned or being able to exploit a temporary widening of the rent - ’
‘Yes, yes!’ snapped Sacristen in a voice Adelko thought far more irritable than it should have been. ‘I’m not a novice, Horskram, and I understand these matters as well as you do – even if it is more than two decades since I served as a friar.’
Then he sighed again, and in less harsher tones he asked: ‘If it is a demonologist at work, do you have any idea who it might be? What about ... ?’ His voice trailed off as he glanced over at Adelko.
‘I don’t know,’ said Horskram, picking up the slack. ‘It could be. But without a divination there’s no way we can be certain, as you well know.’
Sacristen nodded, staring distractedly into his half-empty wine cup. ‘Yes, yes of course... Well, tonight we must entertain our prosperous guests. But tomorrow morning they shall be gone. Then we can gather the adepts together and... see what can be determined.’
Horskram was now staring intently at the Abbot. ‘What is it? What else is troubling you?’ he asked.
Sacristen licked his lips nervously and continued to stare at his cup. With his other hand he absently stroked the silver circifix around his neck. Then he raised his eyes to meet Horskram’s.
‘We had better speak in my private chambers. Tonight, after sunset prayers. I have things to tell you that are not fit for a novice’s ears.’
The rest of the afternoon was a giddy blur to Adelko. Naturally all the other novices were desperately keen to hear of his adventures, and they had just managed to squeeze a couple of stories out of him before the great iron bell in the courtyard rang for the evening meal.
Filing into the refectory, Adelko felt renewed pangs of hunger knot his stomach as he laid eyes on its trestle tables for the first time in months.
